


So You Want to be a Rock and Roll Star

by morganya



Category: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-21
Updated: 2004-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then take some time, and learn how to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You Want to be a Rock and Roll Star

Ted takes the Q train home, as the sun starts to rise. The floor shakes under his feet and the empty seats across from him are neon orange and red, marked with slashes and graffiti. His bass lies by his feet, the neck of the case bumping into his ankles with each rattle, making a steady, thumpthump beat against his skin.

Someone spilled beer down the back of his jacket earlier, and the denim's drying stiff against his neck, reeking of cheap malt. His elbow throbs with unobtrusive pain, and his knees and his hands and shoulders, bruises he doesn't remember getting. His own clumsiness, really. He takes his glasses off when he performs, in his one concession to vanity. It heightens the chance that he'll crash into something on stage as well as turning whoever's in the audience into one big blob. He thinks it's worth it.

He gets off the train and drags the bass five blocks to the apartment, climbs the stairs and unlocks the door. Carson is already awake, pouring coffee into his travel mug. Ted blinks at him.

"Good morning, sunshine," Carson says.

"Hi," Ted croaks. His vocal cords feel singed and tight from screaming over Amy's guitar; he can't afford to say much right now. He rests the bass against the wall.

"Well, you look like shit," Carson states definitively, then wrinkles his nose. "And you smell like a French cathouse. Did you get laid?"

"I wish." Ted peels his sticky jacket off and shoves it into the swollen laundry bag next to the amplifier at the foot of his bed.

"Don't give up hope. Oh, and don't take a shower yet, either. Unless you like it Arctic." Carson puts the coffee pot back in its niche. Ted rolls his eyes at him. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice, Ted. It's not my fault, it takes time to look this good."

Six in the fucking morning and Carson's the poster child for cheery sales associates. The bastard. Ted turns on his alarm clock.

"Did it go okay?" Carson says, thankfully taking the perkiness factor down a notch. "Enjoyed yourself?"

Ted gives him a thumbs up.

"Right. Forgot, you can't talk. I'm going to be late." Carson picks up his shoulder bag. "Don't let the scabies bite."

"Mrrag," Ted mumbles, putting his glasses aside and curling up on the bed. Hell with taking off his shoes.

Carson says something else before he shuts the door, but Ted can't decipher his actual words. Sleep comes heavily, and even then it seems wrapped up in sour sweat and rotting hops.

*****

Ted's alarm goes off at nine, and he rises automatically, still foggy, and makes his way into the tiny bathroom without opening his eyes. The water in the shower never really goes above tepid, even when Carson hasn't been hogging it, but it helps to wake him up. He goes to work with his hair still wet.

The store is lit by humming fluorescent light, which makes everything look unnatural. Ted's manager mainly hangs out in the back, leaving him to his own devices, which suits him fine. Ted stands behind the register and methodically writes on blank cashier's tape, cheap napkins, discarded coffee cups that he rips up to make them lie flat. Sometimes when he gets back to the apartment, his jeans are overflowing with scraps. He empties out his pockets onto his bed, all of his bits of paper bled through with musical notes and bits of lyrics.

He tries to paste the scraps together into a coherent musical whole before he makes it to rehearsal, rearranging them on top of the bed and staring at them, willing them to make sense. Carson thinks he's nuts.

"I don't think you're William Burroughs," Carson says, sitting on his bed with a cigarette in one hand, staring at Ted. "Unless you're planning to become a junkie and run off to Morocco. Are you?"

"I'm getting the feeling that you're disparaging my creative process," Ted says. He examines what used to be a paper coffee cup, torn up and smeared with ink, pressed under his thumb. His handwriting is barely decipherable; all that really makes sense to him is the phrase, _mirrors, mirrors, mirrors._

"I'm not," Carson says. "I just figured living here would mean you'd bring home cute poetic boys and we could sit around talking about how sensitive we were. It's been three years, and you've never brought home _anyone_ with a beret."

"A beret. That's your criterion for sensitivity?"

"Yeah. One of those little -"

"Carson, you watch too many bad movies." Ted clumsily reaches for his notebook and writes down 'mirrors.' He doesn't know where he's going to work in the lyric, but he likes it, so it's going into the maybes. "I'll look for someone with a beret when you start dating responsible retail people. Or at least someone who doesn't think Iggy Pop is a cold beverage. Speaking of which, what do you think of this: 'Until I find there's nothing there that isn't already broke.' It'll sound better with the bridge." He hums.

"I don't know, Ted, it all sounds good to me." Carson flicks his cigarette in the general direction of the ashtray. "Anyway, retail people are boring. All they know about style comes from _Elle_. I don't need to date that."

"Your tastes are unfathomable, Carson. And bizarre. Did I mention bizarre?"

"Or you're just pathetically unromantic," Carson says tartly. "I thought you artistic types were all about the roses and the singing by moonlight and the baby, I'll never leave you. Where'd you go wrong, Ted?"

"I think you have me confused with Celine Dion," Ted says, shoving himself off the bed and tucking his notebook into his shoulder bag. He's not entirely happy with the songs he's got, but at least it's something. "I've got to go."

"Don't stay out too late." Carson crushes his cigarette out. "And don't blow out any eardrums."

"Okay, Mom." Ted arranges shoulder bag and bass, trying to find the elusive balance that will let him walk the streets without toppling over in an overloaded heap. He can't quite get it. Carson is smiling at him; he has the feeling he's being laughed at. heads off to rehearsal.

Rehearsal tends to go like this: Ted lays out the songs he's written and assigns the band their parts and then they spend two hours trying to find the right combination of vocals and bass and guitar and drums. Ted thinks of it as testing the formula, of making sound waves coalesce and shape into something beyond what he'd heard in his head, until it doesn't seem to be part of him at all. He likes that.

Then he remembers that it's a living, too, and lets the band thrash to a stop around him before quietly starting to talk about the setlists for the next shows, seeing if anyone has any problems. He lets the band complain about the venues and lets them wonder aloud if maybe they should change the band name. Their talk never comes to anything.

Then Isaac the drummer offers to go get Indian takeout before they go any further, and everyone forks over some money, and after he leaves, Ted sits in the small cramped room they call a rehearsal space with Amy the guitarist and makes edits on the new songs while Amy gnaws on her cuticles.

"Can I see the demo again?" Amy says.

"All righty." Ted reaches into his shoulder bag and hands over the demo, a CD in a cheap, flimsy jewel case. He keeps spare copies with him to truck around town, mainly for giving to club managers who haven't heard them. Looking at the CD, Ted once again feels vaguely ripped off: eighty dollars an hour for studio time, and they get photocopied artwork and shoddy materials for the trouble. Amy takes it from him carefully, as though she's afraid she'll break it; he doesn't blame her.

She traces the front with one finger, making little circles around each letter of the band name. She hands it back to him, smiling nervously, as though she's not allowed to hold it. "Thanks."

"It's yours and his too, y'know," Ted says. "You don't need to thank me."

She looks at him. "I know, but you've got to admit, it's mostly yours."

*****

The club is technically called Xavier's, a holdover from its lounge club days, but everyone calls it Save. The floor used to be oak, now obscured by a thick layer of ground-in cigarette ash and cheap beer. There is a crack running through the middle of the floor like a faultline, revealing dull gray concrete.

Ted is caught between a blue-haired hulk in a Misfits shirt and a little girl who's gotten in with a fake ID, he'd bet money on it. The little girl had muttered curtly, out of the side of her mouth, "Nice set," when Ted first came to stand beside her, but didn't make eye contact with him, probably for fear of losing face, and Ted nodded but didn't push a conversation. Occasionally he shifts his attention from the stage, where Tardive Dyskinesia are playing what sounds like a new song, to the floor, to check on Isaac the drummer and make sure he's okay. Isaac is crashing into other people, and it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the music, just arms and legs flailing together, strangers crashing together and then whirling away.

Isaac gets shoved into Ted; Ted feels his shoulder protest, sinews stretching wrong. His body wasn't made for this scene. He laughs and pushes Isaac back into the fray, Isaac laughing crazily along with him, gesturing for Ted to come with him. Ted shakes his head and gives him a low wave (go on, my son), and someone shouts in his ear, "Wow, not much of a joiner, are you?"

It's not Misfit Guy, and it's not the little girl, it's someone else altogether, rough-voiced and sly. Ted turns his head slightly to give whoever it is a patented death glare, but before he can, some drunk frat boy in a white baseball hat staggers into his side, throwing him off balance, breath knocked out of him. Rough Voice catches him before he can crash into Misfit Guy, straightens him up with large, strong hands, shouting, "Whoa, you all right?" The frat boy staggers off.

"Yeah," Ted wheezes, not sure whether to say thanks or continue with the original glaring plan. Rough Voice is taller than he is, wearing a black Ramones T-shirt that looks a little too new (_poseur_, Ted thinks), jeans with ragged hems and paint splatters on the knees. Big brown eyes. Ted grudgingly shouts, once he gets his breath back, "Thanks."

"It's okay." Rough Voice lets him go. "By the way, nice set."

"Glad you liked it."

Rough Voice starts to disappear into the crowd. "Think you could play Autophobia at the next gig, though?"

_The fuck?_ Ted thinks. "I'm afraid I'm not a jukebox," he shouts at Rough Voice's back. He feels vaguely gratified to see the guy pause and look back at him, and then he just feels annoyed that he's bothered to keep staring. He looks back into the pit, trying to spot Isaac, and wills himself not to turn back around.

*****

Carson's hippie friend Kyan comes around the apartment sometimes, bringing weird herbal tinctures that smell like a swamp with him. Ted's not sure what to do with them, and Carson just keeps them around because they're in pretty bottles.

"They're good for you," Kyan protests. "Boosts the immune system."

Ted plucks at his bass and watches in bemusement as Kyan sits Indian-style on the floor, surrounded by candy-colored bottles, earnestly explaining to Carson the proper way to dose himself with the echinacea-ginger-St. John's Wort mixture. Carson says, "Uh-huh, uh-huh," and then spins one of the bottles round and round in his palms, making it catch the light.

"Well, you could at least _try_," Kyan says, a trifle snippily.

"I am trying," Carson says. "Ted, you see me trying, don't you?"

"I'm staying out of this," Ted says. He touches a string, the wire barely fitting into the grooves of his fingertips, listens to the bass chime like a bell.

Carson shrugs and reaches for another bottle - spun-sugar pink glass, dark liquid sloshing inside it - and starts to uncork it. "Now what's this?"

"Ginseng. And some coriander seed, too, maybe."

Carson sniffs the bottle and gags. "It smells like the gym floor."

"You're not supposed to smell it, just drink it. It's good for circulation."

"My ex used to take ginseng," Carson says. "But he chewed it raw. Don't know where he got it from. At least he said it was ginseng. I was too scared to ask."

"Which ex was this?" Kyan says.

"Jamie. The hot one? From Bensonhurst?"

All Carson's exes are hot. Ted has trouble differentiating between them. They all blend together in his memory: muscular, sloe-eyed boys, all younger than Carson by a year or two, sweet, smiling boys with perfect hair. Carson has brought a few of them over to the apartment, where he keeps them waiting while he changes clothes in the bathroom, leaving Ted to make small talk and offer paltry refreshments, like he's Carson's mom or something. None of them are as smart as Carson, and none of them have much to say. They don't need to say anything. They all look at Carson adoringly, and they laugh at all his jokes though Ted would bet they don't understand them. Carson treats them all with off-hand affection, and it seems to make them like him more. When he lets them go, because he always lets them go, they float away and disappear without incident, to be replaced by someone else a month or two later.

Ted doesn't quite understand why Carson's so content to keep moving on, why he wouldn't want one of the Jamies and Steves and Michaels that he brings home to keep laughing at his jokes and waiting for him to finish changing clothes, eyes blind to anything else. Especially Ted.

And Carson says he's unromantic.

Ted starts to tune the next string, but he can't remember what note he was in. He stares across the room at Carson, who's still playing with the bottles and chuckling at Kyan.

"Is that a song?" Kyan says.

"Just tunin' it."

"I wish you'd play songs when I'm over here," Kyan says. "Carson's always talking about your music."

"Yeah, about how he keeps me up until all hours playing that thing," Carson says. "It's like living in a seventies porn flick around here."

"You don't need me playing bass for _that,_ Carson," Ted says.

"True." Carson stretches, preens at his hair. Kyan just rolls his eyes.

*****

It's God knows when in the morning. Ted wonders whether it's even worth trying to go to sleep at this point. The floorboards creak loudly; Carson walks with the grace of a stevedore, and the carpeting is thin.

Carson pokes his shoulder. "Hey, move over. I'm cold."

"Uh," Ted moans, but rolls over to make room. His bed is barely big enough for one, let alone two; Carson curls against his back, shivering, all arms and legs. Ted's face is pressed into the wall.

Ted squirms and tries to give Carson more blanket. "You need a quilt or somethin'."

"We need central heating, is what we need."

"Sounds great. You can pay for it."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Carson rubs his ice-cold hands against Ted's sides.

"_Jesus,_ Carson." Ted rolls over, pressing his hands over Carson's to keep them still. "I really don't want to get hypothermia from you."

"It's not contagious, darling," Carson says. "Calm down, it'll get warm soon."

"You're like a goddamn _lizard,_" Ted says. "Cold-blooded -"

"Oh, quiet, you big baby." Carson throws his foot over Ted's ankle. His shivering starts to slow. Ted yawns.

Carson taps his belly. "You going to sleep?"

"Ungh."

"I'm just _asking_," Carson says. "Just in case you might -"

"Might what?"

"Playing dumb doesn't suit you."

"You're bored," Ted says.

"That's not the right word."

"It's late, Carson. I'm tired."

"If you were tired, you'd be asleep," Carson says with impermeable logic. "Come on. Be a friend. What's one little hand job between friends?"

"You talk to your dates like this?"

"You're not a date," Carson says.

Ted slides two fingers under the waistband of Carson's shorts. "You're going to do my laundry tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. I have to go to work in the morning, so make it snappy."

"Carson? Screw you."

"Point being?"

"It's under the bed," Ted says. "My clock's under there, too, so be careful."

"I'm always careful." Carson gropes under the bed. Something falls over with a crash. Ted sighs.

"It's okay," Carson chirps brightly. Ted hears the snap of the cap opening, the soft splatter of lube hitting Carson's hands. "Oh. Eww. Ted, come here."

"What have you done?" Ted says.

"Nothing. Just give me your hands." Carson grabs him. His hands are slick with lube, not quite warm yet, smelling of glycerin. He presses his silky-soft palms to Ted's, clasping him tightly. Carson never was good at measurement; he always winds up overestimating and making a mess.

"You're using me as a towel," Ted says.

"Waste not, want not." Carson lets him go, Ted's hands now smoothed with lube, warming with contact, slicking in between his fingers. Carson tugs him closer, surprisingly gentle. He slides his hand in between Ted's thighs as Ted starts to reach out for him; Ted imagines Carson leaving lubricated fingerprints on his skin.

Carson always reaches for him delicately, at first, as though he's still expecting Ted to say no, deft fingers traveling the length of his cock without any great urgency, oblivious to Ted hardening under their touch. Ted tugs at Carson's shorts, the side of his hand brushing coarse, tangled hair. Carson's cock fits sweetly into his palm. Carson murmurs his approval.

It's always a tangle at first, before they can settle into the rhythm of who strokes first and who goes second. Part of it is that the bed's just too damn small for them, forcing them into a half-embrace, and part of it's the dark, and part of it is that neither of them are terribly graceful. Ted always winds up bumping his elbow against Carson's arm, or shifting his weight and knocking his foot against Carson's ankle.

"Clumsy -" Carson whispers, breath hot on Ted's face, dyed blond hair trailing across Ted's mouth. His left hand forms a ring around Ted's cock, holding it steady as his right hand circles and strokes, up and down, and it's like his fingers are electric: tiny currents flowing through his fingertips, pulsing into Ted's skin. How Carson can manage to multi-task is something Ted's never figured out; it's all he can do to remember to move his own hands along the slippery length of Carson's cock, and even then he winds up stopping, too distracted to think of anything but the shuddery flow of blood through his body, Carson's cock heavy in his hand.

"You might want to move a little faster, my dear," Carson says, almost smugly. He rolls his hips, as though he were fucking Ted's closed hand. "Don't tell me you've forgotten how to do this."

Ted can't answer; he's goddamned _so close_, and Carson shouldn't know how to touch him this well, but he's damned if he's going to say that. Ted only just manages to switch his grip from his left hand to his right. He holds on to Carson's thigh for leverage.

He presses his face to Carson's shoulder when he comes, his forehead resting against skin and jutting bone. He stops his hands again; Carson chuckles triumphantly and Ted sighs against him before starting again, pretending it's his own cock he's touching this time, going into the movements that tend to work on him and hopefully will work on Carson, too.

It takes a minute, but Carson finally goes stiff, a rigid band of muscle, and there's warm sticky splatter against Ted's fingers. Carson lets his breath out and nuzzles Ted's hair.

"You'd be great at this," Carson says, "if you weren't so easily distracted. Is there a book of jack off pointers you could read?"

"Mmmph." Ted rolls over. "You know I meant it about the laundry."

"'Kay," Carson says, already half-asleep, "Fair trade..."

Friends with benefits, Carson calls it. Ted doesn't call it anything at all. He shifts in his too-small bed, the tops of Carson's toes brushing against his heels, and he really wants to get up to wash his hands but Carson's fast asleep now and he doesn't want to wake him.

Once upon a time Ted was newly graduated, and Carson was an Abercrombie-wearing sophomore, and Ted said to Carson, _Move in, we'll split the rent, you hate that dorm and I'm broke,_ and Carson looked startled and then said, _Sure, we'll be like Marlo Thomas in_ That Girl, and two months after Carson moved in Ted staggered in blind drunk from a late gig and got into bed with him, slobbering, _Bes' frien', bes' frien' in the whole world._ In the morning, before Ted could start cringing with embarrassment, Carson said, _God, Ted, it's not like we have to go to Vermont and get a domestic partnership,_ which was a huge relief, and now it's three years later and they have...this.

It's something to do when they're bored or drunk or just lonely, and it's nice once in a while, but it's somehow not enough. Ted rolls over and looks down at the outline of Carson's sleeping face. He remembers Carson at eighteen, on the verge of coming out, just like Ted, another face in the back row of Romantic Poets of the Nineteenth Century, before he started dyeing his hair, a skinny kid who talked non-stop to Ted about assignments and tuition, and then, much later, about how scared he was that his parents just wouldn't understand.

He wonders if Carson ever tells his Jamies or Michaels or Steves about that. But Carson doesn't look for people he can have deep soul-searching talks with. Carson thinks mystery is romantic. Or maybe just safer.

Ted sighs and drops his head against Carson's shoulder, breathing in the sharp dark smell of sweat and fading cologne, willing himself to get at least two hours sleep before he has to get up for work. Carson stirs and croons softly to himself, not waking.

*****

This club is called XO, which makes Ted think of little junior high notes, and the acoustics suck in it. He hadn't known the acoustics were going to suck as badly as they did, because he hadn't had time to check it out, like a moron, and that pisses him off. Ted sits with Isaac at the bar, sulkily cracking open the pistachios that sit in faux-wooden bowls along its length, telling himself that he's going to be extremely snippy with the club manager later on. Amy has floated off with her latest boyfriend, an NYU post-grad with a burgeoning mullet, and Isaac's just happy that he gets to drink for free.

The pistachios have left salty green stains on his fingers. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, there's a tall guy in a red T-shirt, with spiky dark hair and splattered jeans. As much as he's trying to brood, he keeps going back to that, keeps trying to keep a outlook for the movement of red and spiky brown, until he realizes it's the guy who tried to make a music request two weeks earlier. Rough Voice Guy.

Ted nudges Isaac, who's good with remembering names. He doesn't particularly want to find out who the guy is, he's just making idle conversation. Besides, he'd bet Rough Voice isn't even his type. "Hey."

"Mmm?" Isaac's in mid-swallow.

"You know who that guy is? Red shirt? Don't look, he'll see you."

Isaac whistles nonchalantly and makes a sweep of the bar. "I dunno. He's been at our last five shows, though. You didn't see him?"

Ted points to his glasses. "Considering I can't see more than six inches without these on, no, I haven't."

"Oh...oh yeah..." Isaac says. "I don't know who he is. Why, you like him?"

"I didn't say that. Just wondering."

"I could go up and get him for you!" Isaac bounces in his seat, like a five-year-old. "I could -"

Ted shakes his head. "I don't think -"

"Oh, come _on_," Isaac wheedles. Ted begins to regret starting this conversation.

"I need to go to the bathroom," he announces. "Let's just forget I ever said anything, okay?"

Isaac pouts a minute, then reaches for his beer. Ted gets up from the bar, leaving a plethora of broken pistachio shells in his wake.

In the bathroom, Ted scrubs the green stains off his hands, albeit imperfectly. When he leaves, he swings the door open too quickly, and he almost trips over Rough Voice.

Somewhere, karma is laughing at him.

"Oh," Ted says. "Sorry. Hey."

"Hey," Rough Voice says. "Nice show."

Ted grunts. "Yeah. I'm sure what you could hear was fantastic."

The guy points at the ceiling. "It's padded, God knows why. Sucks up sound like a sponge. I think you brought it off, though."

"Great," Ted says, and then figures he might as well be polite. "Um, I'm Ted, by the way."

"Thom. With an 'H.' You played Autophobia."

Ted isn't sure if he should be embarrassed or just irritated. He honestly hadn't been thinking when he made up the setlist; now it looks like he played it on purpose and he feels like a fool. "Yeah," he says noncommittally.

"Was it because I asked?" Thom cocks his head expectantly. His eyes have little flecks of gold in them.

Ted looks at him over the tops of his glasses. "Yeah. It's not like I have a setlist already planned or anything."

Thom just grins. "Figured it was something like that."

For the life of him, Ted can't figure out if he's joking or not. Ted feels off-center, his balance unsteady, and he doesn't like it one bit.

"Look, let me buy you a beer," Thom says. "After I, you know -" He points to the men's room.

Ted tries to decide whether to coolly turn him down and walk off, or mention that he's drinking for free tonight anyway, or just say yes and try to sell him a CD later. While he's deciding, Thom says, "Or whatever else you're drinking. You're not into anything weird, right? Like bats' blood and Chartreuse?"

He's caught off guard, and the only thing that comes into his head is the truth. "I think I'm fine with beer."

"Great. Have a seat, I'll be right out."

Ted goes back to the bar. Isaac has wandered off somewhere, which is just as well because Ted doesn't want to see him gloat. Thom comes back out, sits silently beside him and waves at the bartender.

"So, how come you're the Unconscious Collective?" Thom says. "Don't you need more than three members for that?"

"Ever read Jung?"

"No."

"Oh. It's a Jung thing. Not literally, though. Because that would be stupid."

"Oh. Well, if you say so."

"So I guess you've been coming here for a while."

The bartender brings over two glasses, which seem to be all foam. Thom takes one and fishes in his pocket, then flips a ten onto the bar. "Well, I don't think I've been coming _here._"

"Well, no," Ted says. "But, you know."

"Well, your posters are all over the buildings on my way to work. I was subliminally influenced. Where'd you get the artwork for those, anyway?" Thom takes a drink and then makes a face into the glass.

"Umm?" Ted says.

"The artwork. Or the cheap photocopy of the artwork. With the zigzags." Thom motions with one long finger.

"My roommate took a few classes in college. I got him to do it."

"It was good."

"It was cheap, too. So did we live up to the art?"

Thom smiles. "I don't know. You tell me why I keep following you to clubs."

"That's not something I can answer."

"Thought you might want to try." Thom swirls his glass; the foam has yet to dissipate, sticking to the sides. Thom rests a finger on the lip, as though he's about to jab it into the glass itself, breaking up the foam. For an absurd moment, Ted thinks he's about to raise his hand to his mouth and suck off the excess liquid from his skin, but that doesn't happen.

Ted says, "Um, why?"

"Wow." Thom sets the glass aside and stands up, grinning. His front teeth have the barest suggestion of a gap between them. "You just really suck at flirting." He pats Ted's back and then he's disappearing again, walking out the door.

Ted realizes he's forgotten to drink his beer.

*****

He goes to work, stares at the fluorescent lighting that makes the colors of Dorito bags turn irradiated. The white curlicues on top of the Hostess cupcakes look like glue instead of sugar paste. When customers come in Ted has to stare at them for a minute before he remembers he's supposed to work the register.

When he gets back to the apartment, he sits down on the floor, scraps of paper and notebook and various bills that he needs to pay spread around him. He doesn't know how to get organized; he feels like something's got under his skin, jittering even as he forces himself to sit still. He tripped over a crack in the pavement coming home, and his knee keeps throbbing and distracting him.

He hears the door open and close. Carson says, "Floor's not clean. You're going to get about twenty different diseases."

"I'll risk it."

"Walking on the wild side, I see." Carson sits down, his back against Ted's. "How was work?"

"Tell me again why I went to college."

"Because you love racking up student loans."

"Oh, yeah. That." Ted leans against Carson's back, feeling skinny shoulders align with his.

"Are you paying the light bill? Because I owe you for half of that."

"I don't know. I have no idea what I'm doing, Carson."

"Oh. Want me to tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Ted picks up one of the bits of paper, not waiting for Carson's reply. "Give me an honest opinion on something."

"Honesty? Wow. This must be serious."

"Tell me what you think of my flirting skills."

"Okay. You don't have any."

"Oh. Goddamnit."

"Kind of strange, really," Carson continues, warming up to the topic. "But I suppose you don't have much opportunity to display your charms when you're crashing around trying to organize everything."

"But I don't -" Ted starts.

"Or if you're just crashing around. I wish you'd wear your glasses onstage, Ted. You're going to kill yourself one of these days."

"I'm all right." Ted reaches for his notebook, thumbs through songs half-written and ones that will never be finished. "Ever think you're wasting your life?"

"Why?" Carson stretches against him. "I can't think of anything else I want to do."

Carson's hair tickles the back of Ted's neck. Ted says, "So last night I met a guy who liked the artwork you did for us."

*****

The club manager at Undertones is giving Ted the fish eye, probably wanting to bawl him out for the set going overtime (Five whole minutes. Oh, the humanity), but Ted has other things to worry about right now. Amy's mulletheaded NYU boyfriend has decided he's too good to be seen at their shows and stood her up, and now she's practically got her face wedged into her Black and Tan, blubbering, "But I love him, I _love_ him."

"Oh, yes," Ted says, patting her shoulder lamely. He wishes Isaac would come back from the mosh pit. He's much better at this emotional stuff. "Yes, yes, of course you do."

The club manager starts to approach them, mouth opening, but Ted stops him with an icy, "We'll do this later." The manager turns around; Ted feels slightly gratified to know he can be intimidating when he chooses.

Amy sniffles. "I'm fine. Really."

"No, you're not."

She makes a little gasping hiccup. "I'm gonna go home."

"Yeah? Want someone to come with you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

She staggers to her feet. Ted says, "Let me get you a cab."

"No cab."

"Somehow I don't think sending you wobbling off into the night is a good plan. C'mon."

He drags her outside and pours her into the backseat of a taxi, where she promptly passes out, slumping over her guitar case. He gives the driver ten bucks and watches it zoom away.

He scans the club's interior for the manager, preparing to make a swift getaway, but doesn't see anyone, so he goes back to the bar, where he orders a large vodka and takes his glasses off, pressing the heels of his hands against his aching eyes.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Thom says beside him.

Ted jumps. He fumbles for his glasses and puts them on. "Jesus."

"Sorry," Thom says. He's holding a beer bottle in one hand, cigarette smoldering slowly in the other. "Thought you knew I was here. How are you?"

"Fine," Ted says and takes a drink, trying to look unflustered. "The manager's pissed off at us and my guitarist's having a crisis, but I'm fine."

"Crisis? Is she -"

"I think she'll be okay." Ted shrugs. "Boyfriend trouble."

"Ohhh," Thom says. "Poor thing. I've had nights like that."

"Really," Ted says. He thinks of saying that Thom looks like he's never had a bad night in his life, but he doesn't know exactly how to phrase it, how to make the words fit around his tongue. So he just takes another drink and stares straight ahead.

"So, where are you playing next?" Thom says cheerfully. "I mean, I usually see your posters around, or you're in the paper or something, y'know, but I figured since you're sitting right here and all..."

"At the Line," Ted says, and he's only answering because it means more ticket sales, not because he cares or anything. "We're opening for Opium. So you have plenty of time to hang around and tell me my flirting skills suck."

He says it without thinking, which is probably why it comes out sounding more hurt than cutting. Thom puts his beer down. His face suddenly looks soft, the wide angles of his cheekbones turning less sculpted. "Oh. Look, I'm sorry about that. I was just kidding around."

"No, you weren't."

"Well. Um."

He sighs. "It's okay. Apparently it's true. According to my roommate, anyway."

"It's just not what you'd expect," Thom says. His voice is soothing, placating. "You're a musician, right? You must get groupies all over."

"That's what _I_ thought," Ted says. "Why else would I be doing this, right? It sure isn't for the paycheck."

"So. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Groupies, dumbass," Thom says, and then looks worried. "Um, I can call you dumbass, right?"

"Why not."

"Okay. Good."

"What do you do?" Ted asks. "Besides go to our shows."

"Bum around," Thom says. "I paint, too. Nothing fancy, just, like, paintings. I did the cover for the Deviants' last album too, did you see it?"

"No," Ted says honestly, and he thinks that's it, that's the thing that's going to catch Thom off guard, put the ball in Ted's court for once, but Thom just laughs and says, "Oh, okay. Well, you can just believe me when I say it was great, then."

"Sure," Ted says, and he laughs too, because he knows when he's beaten. "That's nice, being a painter. Must be kind of hand-to-mouth, though. You guys must have unbelievable stamina."

"Pretty much. What are you drinking there? Want another?"

Ted looks at his glass, only a quarter full by now. "Well, I'm drinking for free tonight," which is what he should have said the last time around. "One of the perks in the contract."

"That makes sense," Thom says. He stubs his cigarette out and tilts his head back, polishing off the beer. "Want to let me buy you one anyway?"

Ted swallows. The vodka feels hot going down his throat, a pleasant cauterizing fire. "So, would this be flirting?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think I'm not that good at this."

Thom leans in and puts a warm hand on the back of his neck. "It's never too late to learn."

Ted suddenly wonders where Isaac's gone off to. He wonders if it's something he needs to worry about. He wonders if this is a bad idea, and why he's not getting up.

"Want to come take a walk with me?" Thom says softly. "I mean, if you want to. We can go somewhere else where I can actually buy you a drink."

"I, um. I should get my stuff."

"I can wait."

"Outside," Ted says. "There's a side door. I'll be out in a second."

He figures it's a way to buy time, pull himself together as well as see if Thom's even going to wait for him. In the tiny, stuffy dressing room backstage, Ted puts his bass back into its battered case and wonders what's happening to him.

Thom's standing in the alley by the side door when Ted comes out. His thumbs are hooked into the belt loops on his jeans; in the dim light by the door his hair and eyes look inky black. "Hey. I was beginning to think I'd been stood up."

"I'm a man of my word," Ted says.

"Got all your stuff?" Thom says, and points to the case. "Don't know how you're going to lug that around all night. What kind is it, anyway?"

"Cheap Telecaster," Ted says. "Like Mike Watt used to play. Almost but not quite, anyway."

Thom nods in approval. He puts out a hand; he has paint on his fingers, either white or silver paint, Ted doesn't know. Ted says, "You know, you never did tell me why you keep coming back."

Thom smiles. He raises his outstretched hand and touches Ted's face. His thumb almost rests against Ted's lower lip. "You never tried to guess."

_Something's happening now,_ Ted thinks dimly. Thom says, with a sudden uncertainty he didn't expect, "You're okay with this, right? I mean, if you really just want to have a drink..."

"Well," Ted says. "Um, it's not like I can stop now."

Ted's grip loosens when Thom pulls him close; the case falls from his hand, the neck sliding down the front of his pants. It drops onto the pavement with an atonal thump.

Thom's mouth is softer on his than he'd expected, careful and moth-like. Ted thinks he's being tested out; either Thom's just seeing what he feels like or he thinks he's going to frighten Ted off. Ted puts his hands on Thom's hips, hooking his fingers through the belt loops in Thom's jeans, his fingers in knots now, the ridges of Thom's hips hard under his palms.

Thom has one hand on the back of Ted's head, arms resting on his shoulders. If Ted opens his eyes, he imagines, he will see half Thom's face in shadow, the dim light by the side door coloring their skin. His lips begin to part.

Thom lets go of the back of his head and takes his shoulders, pirouetting him off his feet, and Ted has his back against the wall before he can catch his breath, his T-shirt riding up. The bricks feel scratchy and rough against his skin.

Thom's knee is wedged in between Ted's legs, his elbow above Ted's shoulder. He's come to a conclusion, it seems; his mouth has grown roughly hungry. Ted's lips feel hot and bruised, like fruit turning overripe in the sun.

Thom's other hand is on the zipper of Ted's jeans. He bats the slider back and forth with one finger. It squeaks against the teeth. And then the zip as it comes undone, and Thom's hand is warm against him, and Ted wonders if he would leave smeary silver fingerprints on his skin. Thom starts to sink to his knees.

"Not here..." Ted manages. "Not here..." His voice is garbled, slurred, as though he's very drunk. "Please...someone will see..."

Thom looks up, face in shadow, smile sly and knowing. "How about we let them?"

"Please," Ted says, but he can't tell if he's protesting or pleading anymore. Thom pulls his shorts down, the side of his hand brushing against the yellowing, week-old bruise on Ted's thigh. Ted winces.

"Sorry," Thom says. "Ouch. Where'd you get this guy?"

"Tripped," Ted says. "Fell down. Did something."

"Poor baby," Thom says throatily. He traces the outline of the bruise with his finger, ignoring Ted's stiffening cock, leaning in close. His breath is hot against Ted's skin, like the suggestion of a kiss, but he won't finish what Ted thought he was starting, and it's driving Ted crazy but his throat is too tight and his words too garbled to even say, _"Please, please, please, please,"_ anymore; all that comes out of him is a thin, reedy sound, inarticulate and needing.

Thom sucks him into his mouth, velvety tongue lapping him up. Ted hisses, hunching over Thom's bent head, fingers entangling in sweaty dark hair. Somewhere he's thinking, _People must be coming out, someone must be walking by,_ but he's not really in a position to do much about that. Sweat slides down his back, turning cold when it hits the air.

He thinks Thom is humming, or chuckling to himself; his mouth seems to vibrate around Ted's cock, almost rhythmically, Thom the human bass line. Ted wants to say, _Wow, didn't know you had that in you_, but he doesn't. He rubs the side of Thom's head, his thumb brushing against the thin, fragile skin at the corners of Thom's eyes. Thom murmurs an indistinct, "Mmm-hmm," another vibration shooting through him, his cock stiff and slicked with the softness of Thom's tongue.

Ted almost chokes with the effort to keep silent when he comes, tasting saliva and blood at the back of his throat. Thom releases him with a wet pop, white streaking his lower lip. He turns his face upward, grinning into Ted's eyes. His mouth looks ravaged, swollen and pulpy red beneath the white; his hair has lost its spikes and turned into damp, soft waves. "How was that?" he asks Ted breathlessly, wiping his mouth with two fingers.

"How about I tell you when I can formulate words?" Ted says. He fumbles for his zipper. "Ten bucks says we never play this place again."

"It's shitty, anyway," Thom says. He rises up, once again becoming taller than Ted, and laughs softly, more to himself than anything else. "Wanna take a rain check on that walk?"

"I..." Ted says, suddenly feeling shy, "I can...You coming to see us again?"

Thom nods, smiling a little. When he kisses Ted goodbye, Ted can taste himself in Thom's mouth, salty and faintly bitter. Thom disappears into the almost-morning, swallowed up by the city. Ted picks up the case and heads home.

Carson's already awake and dressed for work when Ted gets in. He barely glances up when Ted shuts the door. "Hey, peanut. Did you have fun making lots of noise?"

"Mmm-hmm." Ted peels off his T-shirt, now stinking with sweat, and throws it at the laundry bag. It lands on the foot of his bed instead. "Uh. For the love of God, why do I always miss?"

"Something's different. You're in a good mood," Carson says. Suddenly his eyes widen. He points at Ted. "You got _laid!_"

"Try not to sound so surprised," Ted says. He sits down on the bed to take his shoes off.

"Oh, honey." Carson comes and gives him a hug. "That's my good patient little soldier. Told you not to give up hope."

"Yes, yes, Carson, you're always right." Ted takes his shoes off, then his glasses.

"So, was he hot? You going to run off with him and leave me alone with the utilities bill?" Carson taps his foot. "Come on. These are important questions."

Ted shakes his head and smiles. The late night's starting to go to his throat; it feels scratchy and he doesn't want to talk much.

"So he's just a trick, then?"

"He's been to our shows a few times. He's just slumming."

"I see your taste in men hasn't changed," Carson says. "I'll just go to work and leave you to bask in the afterglow, shall I?"

"Mmm," Ted says sleepily, curling into a ball. "I think you'd like him, though. He's a lot like you."

Carson pauses in the middle of picking up his shoulder bag. "Imagine that." He slings the bag over him and then he's out the door.

Ted winds up trapped at the bar at the Line, ten minutes after he gets off stage and puts his glasses back on. He'd been going for a drink while trying to unobtrusively scan the crowd for Thom, but the air's too smoky to see anyone and there's too many people around to circulate, so he stands at the bar with Jai, the lead singer of Perfect Drug, and sips his beer and tries not to crane his neck around.

He doesn't know where this feeling came from, this jittery uncertainty, and he shouldn't be feeling like this anyway. It goes beyond, "I want to see him so maybe I can get fucked again," and heads into "I just want to see him again," territory. He doesn't like it. He has the urge to sit down and give himself a good talking-to, or just drink until he's numb and his brain stops working. Not for the first time, he wishes he could be like Carson, love them and leave them, pure and untouchable.

The kid, Jai, says, "That stuff's bad for you, isn't it? All that sugar. It goes right to your vocal cords."

"If you have too much of it," Ted says and takes another drink. "It's the alcohol, really. Dries you out."

"Oh, yeah," Jai says. "Because of the thing."

He'd met Jai two months ago; they'd both played the benefit for Free Tibet. Perfect Drug couldn't decide whether they were the Clash or T. Rex, with Jai leaning more towards the T. Rex side. Truthfully, Ted had wanted to pull him aside and give him advice, but it wasn't his place to. Onstage, even when he was dripping sweat and screaming like a madman, the kid seemed to be making up his stage persona as he went along. He looks too fragile for the scene.

Jai continues, "My boyfriend said that I should try, like, steaming before I go on. You know, one of those alien-looking things you stick your face into and breathe? I heard that works."

"If you believe in that kind of thing," Ted says. "I just try not overdo it."

If Jai notices that Ted's only half there, he doesn't show it. Ted's partly wondering about how the kid got into this whole shebang in the first place, and partly wondering if he should do another quick scan of the crowd for Thom, and partly thinking about the time when he was in college, on the verge of twenty one, when he'd fallen in love with guys who maybe sort of liked him back, who made him mixtapes and then rather spectacularly broke his heart. It was because he hadn't been thinking, had let _I want to see you again,_ take over. He used to be pretty good at thinking.

He doesn't like this. It bears repeating.

"I never know if I'm overdoing it or underdoing it," Jai says.

"So when's your next show?" Ted says. He still can't see Thom, if he's even here, and he still can't move.

For a minute he thinks Jai hasn't heard him. Then he shrugs elaborately. "Well. I, um, don't know. We broke up. Last week or something. I broke up with _them_," he corrects himself.

"Ohhh," Ted says. He fights the urge to say congratulations. "Creative differences?"

"Yeah, yeah. I was ready to go out on my own anyway. I don't like being someone else's mouthpiece, it's like I'm a puppet or something crazy like that, I want to start doing other stuff, anyway. How'd you get your band together?"

"Huh?" Ted says. He can't remember when he last thought about that; it seems like he's been with the band forever. "Well, I don't know. I placed some ads, I guess."

"Oh!" Jai says, as though Ted's just made a very interesting statement. "Should I do that? Did it work?"

Ted manages to spot Thom, finally, appearing like the Cheshire Cat in the middle of the club. Ted says, "I think it worked. Sorry, I've got to go talk to some people. I'm working tomorrow, why don't you stop by the store and I'll see if I can remember anything? You know how to get to Flatbush Avenue?"

Jai nods. Ted wishes he'd been able to pay more attention to him, but it can't be helped now and hopefully he can make it up later. He scrawls down the store's address on one of the bar's cheap napkins and hands it to Jai, who gives him a rather sweetly bleak smile and puts it in his pocket. Ted makes his way through the crowd, using his elbows judiciously. Thom is looking the other way.

"Hi," Ted says blandly when he reaches Thom's side. Thom turns around and grins. Ted isn't sure of what the protocol is - they can't hug, because that will look silly, and they can't shake hands, because that's too formal, so he settles for standing still, trying to look blank.

Thom starts to put his hand on Ted's shoulder, then changes his mind and scratches his chin instead. "I was looking for you. You're hard to find."

"I've heard that," Ted says. "You know, I think it's my turn to buy you a drink."

*****

Jai comes by the store forty minutes before Ted goes on break. He fiddles with the row of snack cakes, but stops when he knocks the Twinkies to the floor; he looks shamefacedly at Ted and keeps his hands to himself from then on.

Ted buys him falafel at the Middle Eastern joint around the corner, because it's close by and he only has thirty minutes to spare. Jai plays with the salt shaker on the table while Ted orders up at the counter.

"You know how pissed my boyfriend would be if he knew I let another guy buy me lunch?" Jai says when Ted comes back to the table.

"Uhmm?"

"You know. Because it's like a date."

"It is?" Ted says. He blinks. "Oh. Oh, well. I'm thinking your boyfriend might be a little paranoid."

"Um. He's...protective."

"Really." Ted shrugs. "Tell him it's a work conference. If you feel guilty about it, anyway. Don't see why, but whatever works for you."

Jai considers. "Yeah, yeah. Conference."

"Mmm."

When the falafel arrives Jai wolfs it down like he hasn't eaten in weeks. "I was trying to write, like, all these ads? For the band?" he says with his mouth full. "But it feels stupid. I never know what to say."

"Depends on what you're looking for."

"The thing is, I don't _know_. I don't even have any songs or anything. I have nothing. You write your own songs, right?"

"Not my own songs."

"Well, the band's songs."

"Yeah."

"How'd you start writing?"

Ted blinks at him. "Well, I don't know. I never thought about it, really."

"Isn't it something you need to think about, though?" Jai says. "So you can start somewhere?"

"I don't...it's just something that happened to me."

Jai says nothing. Ted's Coke is starting to sweat, soaking through his napkin and leaving the table's surface damp.

"Will you help me?" Jai says. "Just until I know what I'm doing? I mean, it's all right if you don't want to, because you've got other stuff to do and it's really okay if you want to say no -"

"You sure you wouldn't just rather take a class on songwriting or something?"

"My mom used to say, 'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'"

"I think my mom said the same thing, actually."

"So will you? Just let me know if I'm doing okay?"

Ted's not used to seeing himself as an authority on anything. He knows how to fake it, but he's not sure if it goes any deeper than that. "I can't promise anything, you know."

The kid shrugs. "Well, if it turns out bad, we can pretend it never happened."

_Stupid,_ Ted says to himself as he walks back towards the store. The kid's gone home after arranging another meeting, which might be a brainstorming session and might just be Ted trying to explain the songwriting process, or his own process, anyway, which might not translate well. _Stupidstupidstupidstupid._ He's been comfortable enough in his own little overbooked world; he really doesn't need to take on any more appointments right now. He isn't exactly sure he has much to offer, either.

The problem is that he likes the kid. Jai is tiny and intense and hungry, and he needed help. Ted could be a mentor. Maybe he'd be good at it. He'd been giving advice to Amy and Isaac since he'd met them, practically. They never said he was full of shit. Anyway, he never really liked that whole don't-fraternize-with-your-colleagues protocol.

He'll handle it. He can always handle it.

*****

The kid, Jai, takes to writing songs without a lot of kicking and screaming. He seems to think more in terms of textures and riffs than lyrics, which Ted doesn't quite get but he can work with it. It's like talking to a colleague in the same discipline with completely different field techniques.

Jai generally comes by after the band finishes rehearsing, and Ted says, "Hey, kiddo," which always makes Isaac start snickering for some reason, and it's pretty annoying, and then he goes with Jai to the cheap Chinese place on Nostrand, where they hole up in the corner booth until something important gets said.

"Five songs isn't enough," Jai says. "Right?"

"Right. You can maybe rehearse with them for a while, but not forever."

"Cover songs?"

"Oh God. No."

"What's wrong with covers?"

"Nothing, if you want to look like a college kid at an open mic." Ted shrugs and amends. "I mean, if you want filler, there's something to be said for filler, but..." He shrugs again. "I mean, can you really be convincing singing someone else's songs?"

Jai rests his sharp little chin in his hands. "It's about convincing people?"

"It's all about persona."

"The band could write songs." Jai's band doesn't technically exist yet, Ted wants to point out, but the kid's warming up to the topic now. "We could jam and something could come out of that."

"Well, you sort of want everything to be all of a piece..."

Jai suddenly grins. "And you can only have that if you're the one doing everything?"

"Well. I mean, if you want to phrase it like that..."

Jai's grin fades, leaving just the faintest suggestion of amuseument. He picks up his pen and scribbles something down on the restaurant's red and gold placemats. "Okay. Fourth rule: I need to control everything that happens to me ever."

*****

Thom brings him home after a show in Greenwich Village, because his place is close by, and Ted isn't in the mood to face the subway. It comes up casually; Ted thinks he probably said something like, "I'm not in the mood to face the subway," and Thom probably said something like, "My place is close by, come on."

Thom tells him about the broken dryer in the basement and his crazy neighbor who plays a CD called Sounds of the Rainforest at top volume as they ride up in the elevator, a rickety thing that looks like a modified dumbwaiter, and Ted nods and laughs and it keeps him from thinking about the real thing, which is, _First time at his place_.

Thom's apartment looks like a studio with partitions put up to signify rooms, yellow and cream-colored. The grand tour consists of Thom standing by the door, pointing in random directions, saying, "Kitchen, living room, bedroom," and chuckling.

Thom goes into the kitchenette to make coffee while Ted surveys the apartment in more detail. It sort of seems like it belongs to Thom, but everything's more muted than Ted expected; there's a my-first-apartment feel to it. He looks for any trace of a roommate - extra house keys, pictures, extra beds - but he doesn't see any. What Thom referred to as the living room has a large window that overlooks more buildings, the sky wide above them. The bookshelf by the window has books arranged by size and shape, it looks like; Thom's literary collection looks like it has a wide range of quality, with musician biographies, large coffee-table books of Frida Kahlo and Van Gogh, collections of dirty jokes. There's a heap of paintings on a drop cloth in the corner of the living room, half obscured by the dark blue couch. "Are these yours? The art?"

"Yeah. If I had more storage space around here, they wouldn't be all piled up like that. Doesn't it look crazy?"

"They dry? Can I look at them?"

"Knock yourself out."

Ted sits on the couch and bends down to pick the paintings up. The paper is stiff and thick, the brush strokes forming another texture, and he touches them carefully, just in case the paint's not dry. He picks them up one by one. There's something unearthly about them; he can almost make out familiar images on the canvas, something that looks like a skyline, buildings, trees, all turned to abstract lines, shot through with vivid color, playful in their strangeness, almost alive. He tries to put them back in their place once he's done, as though he hadn't ever disturbed them, afraid of the permission being retracted.

Thom comes out of the kitchenette and puts a plain white mug on the table in front of Ted before he sits down. "Normally, you'd get beer, but I'm out. I didn't just dash your hopes, did I?"

"These are really good," Ted says. "I like this one best." He points at the last one he put down, something that almost could be a sunset, but it isn't quite, jagged flashes of orange like lightning done on softer shades of red and pink and more orange, a sunset that's going supernova. "Really fantastic."

Thom bobs his head, his eyes on the painting. Ted's not sure if he's checking it to make sure it's good, or if he's just remembering to look at it again. Thom doesn't like it when other people praise him, Ted's discovered; he's fine when he gets to do the aggrandizing himself, but pay him one little compliment and he gets all weird. "I forgot the milk," he says, like Ted had asked, and gets up again. "Hold on."

Ted settles back against the couch, resting his chin on his hand. He thinks that Thom probably has even more reason to be nervous than he does; someone in your place, touching your stuff, passing judgment on your cleaning skills. He wonders how appropriate it would be to say, "Hey, just be glad we're not at my apartment, yours is much nicer," or if that would just make things worse.

Somehow, he'd gotten used to the thought of Thom's bravado being all-encompassing, and it really hadn't been a realistic thought, but what can you do. He isn't sure if there's anything he can say that'll be reassuring right now.

Thom eventually reappears, milk carton in hand, looking chastened. "And I don't have any of those little poury creamer things, either. This is just really sad." He sits back down and reaches for his own plain white mug.

"So," Ted says gently, "can I ask about how you did these, or are you going to have to run out and buy...sugar cubes or whatever?"

"No, I think I'm good."

"Do you work here? In the apartment? Or..."

"Kind of. I like working with Polaroids, because they're not, like, all perfectly perfect and they tend to keep still, y'know."

"So you know what you're working with."

"Yeah. I mean, I always lose a little detail, but I think that's the point, right? It's not a photograph, I'm just trying to..."

"Recreate it."

"Yeah." Thom stares back at the painting. "I walk around Times Square with my camera around my neck like a tourist. I keep thinking I'm going to be arrested for loitering."

"You can say it's for work purposes."

"Work purposes. Yeah." Thom looks at him. "You don't write songs about people."

"Not really, no."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I don't know," Ted says. "I just don't think like that."

"So you don't think about other people ever."

Ted frowns. Thom starts chuckling at him. "Well, it's not like I don't think about anybody else _ever._ It's a style thing. Politics before personality."

"If you say so, sweetie," Thom says.

Ted tilts his head. "Is that a new thing? Calling me sweetie?"

"I...I guess."

"It's not bad."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So can I do it again?"

"I don't know. I guess."

"Hey, you're learning," Thom says. He touches Ted's shoulder. His hands are cold.

Ted swallows his coffee wrong; it hurts going down, but he manages to keep from sputtering. He feels like he's spinning, gone into freefall, and the scary thing is, is that he's afraid of this being easy to do. He feels like he should have a plan, but he doesn't, and that's why he shouldn't be leaning over and brushing a curl of dark brown hair behind Thom's ear, but it looks like he's doing it anyway.

"C'mon," Thom says, soft and low, and Ted puts down his mug and follows.

Thom's bed is too big for one person, a king-size expanse of dark red sheets and pillows, and Ted feels pale and skinny in it. He wonders absurdly how Thom managed to fit it into the apartment, if it came dissembled and then had to be fit together, this crimson-colored beast in a tiny New York apartment.

Thom's fingers fit into the hollows on Ted's hip, taptaptapping against skin and bone. He's rubbed something into his hands, some sort of oil or sweet-smelling lube, and it feels like it's sinking into Ted's flesh, tattooing underneath it.

"Relax," Thom says.

"I'm relaxed," Ted says. Thom's fingers slide from his hip to his ass, Ted suddenly, sharply aware of the curves and jutting angles of his own body. His skin feels heavy, slick, blood moving blind and stupid through his veins.

"Suuure you are," Thom says, laughing, and reaches around to cup Ted's belly with his free hand. Warm, rough finger inside him now, really just a swirling fingertip, teasing him until he presses his forehead into the cotton sheets and feels himself start to spread, lying on Thom's bed like he's facing Mecca.

Thom enters him, slow, inch by inch, and it _almost_ hurts, where it's on the edge between saying stop and saying come on, faster, and Ted exhales in a guttural "Uhhh."

"Okay?" Thom's hand is on the small of his back, stroking along his spine. "I didn't hurt you?"

And he smiles into the bedsheets, red all around him, and says, "No, keep going."

It takes a minute to find the rhythm, Thom pushing forward, hips tapping against his ass, Ted rocking back against him a beat later, forming an off-kilter rhythm, slowing and gaining speed and slowing and gaining speed. Ted feels filled clear through, tightening his muscles against Thom's cock. Thom sighs in response, hunching down, almost covering him, and his cock brushes against something deep inside, and Ted has to bite his lip and hold his breath and silently recite the Pledge of Allegiance to keep himself from coming. He pushes back, harder.

"Fuckin'..._Christ,_" Thom says, fingers scrabbling on the sheets, like he's trying to hang on. Danger passed, Ted turns his head and starts to say something, but it dies off on his tongue and he murmurs nonsense instead, soothing words that fade away as soon as they're spoken. Thom straightens up and traces patterns on Ted's shoulder blades with one finger, little fleur-de-lis marks on his skin, and it's that that makes him come, not Thom's cock thrusting inside him. Ted comes slow and easy, goosebumps breaking out on his skin.

Thom shudders against him, and Ted says with his eyes closed, "Almost there?"

Thom doesn't answer. He grabs for Ted's shoulder, digging his fingers in, shaking against him, and then he groans like a dying man and drops forward, kissing the back of Ted's neck before dropping down by his side.

"Good?" he says hoarsely, hand on Ted's hip.

"Mmm-hmm," Ted says. His eyes start to close.

Except then he realizes that he really needs to pee.

"Not to break the mood or anything, Thom, but could I...?"

"Go 'head," Thom says. "Door's on the left."

Ted gingerly rolls out of the monster bed and walks towards the bathroom, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table. Probably wouldn't look good to trip and fall flat on the floor on the way.

When he comes back out, after he's thrown water on his face and started worrying vaguely about the possibility of morning breath, he finds Thom curled on the bed, around the spot Ted just left, silent and still.

"Mmm," Thom says, which seems to be a hello, as Ted gets back into the bed. His hair is a mess, red sheets making funny undertones on his skin. He puts an arm over Ted's belly.

"C'mere," Ted says, and his voice sounds unfamiliar, throaty and soft. He tilts Thom's head back, kisses him until they both need to breathe.

Thom smiles, teeth catching his lower lip. He shuts his eyes and rests his chin on Ted's shoulder.

"Know any good bedtime stories?"

*****

The kid's managed to get a band together; Ted hasn't met them yet. The kid's also going against his advice and playing cover songs until he gets his songwriting up to speed. Ted figures there's nothing he can do about that.

"Come to the show," Jai says. "I need, like, moral support. You know more about music than my boyfriend does."

It's sweet and it's flattering, and he doesn't have a show that night, so he agrees. Jai promises guest list status. "And bring someone! I need publicity!"

It feels weird to ask Isaac or Amy, like it's against professional courtesy, and Carson's really not into music all that much, so he asks Thom. Who seems amused.

"This is kind of an ass-backwards way to have a date, Ted."

"We don't need to call it a date," Ted says. "Gathering? Gathering works."

"Sure," Thom says, and laughs. "'Gathering.' Whatever you want to call it."

He meets Thom outside the club, which is a ratty little hole in the wall called Mo and Larry's. There are people around, so they can't hug or anything. Ted says, "Hey. Good to see you."

Thom smiles down at him. "You're so formal it's crazy. How'd you find out about this show, anyway?"

"I know the lead singer," Ted says and rolls his eyes. He gives his name at the door and they're walking into the dark interior.

Jai's named the band Christian Book Sale, and Ted doesn't even want to fathom how he came up with that particular moniker. Thom stands quietly beside him, looking at the stage and occasionally offering him drags off the clove he's smoking; Ted occasionally takes one even though he knows he shouldn't.

Jai's band looks as tiny and intense as Jai himself. Perfect Drug had been composed of imposing hulks with crewcuts, and Jai always looked out of place on stage, Marc Bolan trying to burst out of his skin. Ted starts making mental notes in case the kid asks about it later.

"This is good," Thom shouts as the band starts throbbing through a cover of Love is the Drug, Jai writhing like a demon in heat above them. "Kind of rough, maybe. Wasn't the lead singer in something else before?"

"Rough," Ted shouts back and nods. The guitar player doesn't quite know the right notes, the bass player's plucking's a little sloppy. The drummer's good, though. "He was in Perfect Drug. I think this'll get better, though. If they tighten up a little and get a better sound person. Let the kid play around a little more."

Thom laughs beside him, a sudden, affectionate chuckle. Ted suddenly feels embarrassed. He hopes to hell he's not blushing. "What?"

"Nothing." Thom rubs his neck, fingers caressing his hairline. "Don't worry about it."

The guest list status allows them to get backstage, where Jai is bouncing from wall to wall in post-show exhilaration. There's a red-haired guy, who Ted guesses is the boyfriend, watching him and smiling indulgently. Jai spots them and comes over, waving.

"Hey! Ted, you made it! Was it good? I thought it was good, but I don't know because I was on stage and everything. What'd you think? Oh, hi," he says to Thom.

"Hey," Thom says. "Nice job."

"This is Thom," Ted says. "Thom, Jai."

"Hello," Jai says, looking embarrassed.

"Nice to meet you," Thom says. "I saw you one time when you were with the other band? A few months ago. You're much better now."

"Yeah, you think so? Where were we before?"

Thom shrugs and laughs. "Well, _I_ don't remember. This was when I was going to a lot of shows. They all sort of blend together."

Jai laughs. A quick hot bolt of jealousy shoots down Ted's spine, and it's absolutely unaccountable and he feels vaguely ashamed, but it's there. He wonders how susceptible Jai would be to the high beams of Thom's charm, how easy it would be for Thom to fix someone else in the beams. He tries to keep his expression blank.

"Ohh," Jai says. "We probably weren't very good. That band sucked. Ted, didn't we suck?"

"Yep," Ted says and smiles.

The red-haired guy's starting to fidget in the background, and Jai says, "I've got to go talk to some people. Really, thanks for coming, you guys. Ted, are we still meeting Wednesday? I don't have much time to talk now..."

Ted nods. "I'll bring notes."

Jai bounces away, back to the red-haired guy, who puts a possessive arm around Jai's waist. Thom says, "He's a little young for that guy, isn't he?"

Thom buys him coffee after they leave the club, some little dingy all-night diner. Ted pours enough sugar into his cup to render it undrinkable, before he realizes what he's doing. He drinks it anyway, to avoid making a fuss.

"He seems like a nice kid," Thom says. "He looks, like, twelve, though. I kept expecting his parents to come pick him up."

"Yeah," Ted says cautiously. "He's a smart guy. Pretty ambitious."

"I guess you have to be."

"He's kind of hunky, too, right?"

"Hmm?"

"You know. What would you think if you ran into him? Maybe not hunky, exactly, but..."

"Oh my God," Thom says.

"What?"

"You're jealous."

"What?"

"You just turned green, practically. It's kind of cute."

"I...I am not," Ted says. "I am neither jealous nor cute. I was just making idle conversation. You're nuts."

"Okay," Thom says pleasantly. He takes a drink. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Know when I first decided I liked you?"

Ted shakes his head. "Not really. I figured you wanted to keep me guessing."

"I did." Thom laughs. "Think you waited long enough?"

"Um, yeah, I think so."

"Okay. Remember when you guys were at the Cavern? Like...I forget when it was."

"I don't remember."

"That's sure a big-ass surprise," Thom drawls, and then grins. "Anyway, I thought you were pretty good and I was, like, going to look for a shirt or a tape or something, and then I saw you get off stage and put the glasses back on and start, y'know, _bartering_ with someone, maybe the manager, I don't know. Like, without even switching a beat. It was..." He frowns. "You were just really capable."

"And you thought that was..."

Thom rolls his eyes. "Honey, I'm a painter. I've lost track of how many flakes I've met. Competence becomes verra sexy after a while."

"Oh," Ted says. "Good."

"So you want to tell me why you decided to talk with me now?"

Ted half-smiles. "Don't you already know, though?"

Thom just stretches. "I'm pretty sure I do."

*****

Ted's half-asleep; he keeps having groggy daydreams that threaten to turn into full-on dreams, and they all have something to with potters' wheels and little spiders, but not in any sensible way. When someone taps his shoulder he jumps.

"Sorry," Carson says. "I'm having nightmares. Move over."

"Mrrah," Ted moans. He rolls over. Carson wraps himself around his back and suddenly Ted's wide awake, and something feels wrong.

They've been hard-wired into this routine for a while, and it shouldn't feel wrong, but it does, and he feels uncomfortable and rigid in Carson's grasp.

He's thinking it feels like cheating.

"Carson -" Ted says, voice thick with sleep, "Carson, I can't."

"Um," Carson says groggily.

"Please." He shifts, too quickly, and bumps against Carson's arm with his elbow, hard.

"Ow."

"Sorry. I just - I can't."

Carson says nothing for a minute. "Oh." He pulls away. "I get it."

Carson shoves himself out of the bed, and his footsteps creak on the floor, and then there's nothing else.

Ted wonders if he should say something else, but he falls asleep before he can.

*****

Carson's on the verge of getting promoted at work. He's been courting it assiduously for two months, and it looks like it's starting to take its toll; he's looking hollow-eyed and brittle, and sometimes when Ted comes home from spending the night at Thom's place, he looks like he hasn't slept at all.

Nevertheless, Carson's having the store district manager over for coffee, and Ted has a show, so he won't be around to make sure Carson doesn't pass out from exhaustion while offering the sugar cubes. Ted kneels on the floor and carefully folds the night's setlist into the case before putting the bass in.

"Think you'll be okay?"

"He likes me well enough," Carson says. "I'm always nice as pie to him when he comes by the store. If I grease the wheel a little more, I can stop worrying."

"You know, if you get this, I can forget about having to keep up my half of the rent," Ted says. "I might as well not even be here."

"Or you can just tell everyone I'm your sugar daddy," Carson says.

"They wouldn't buy it."

"I guess not."

"How long you think it'll be? Coffee, dinner, something like that?"

Carson pokes the dish rack, where the somewhat mismatched collection of coffee mugs is drying. "I don't know. Depends on how long I can slather on the grease. Which may be a very, very long time."

"So I guess it wouldn't be appropriate for me to come back here at three am after a couple beers."

"Not really, unless you can look less unkempt than usual. Maybe if you carried a tennis racket or wore a suit." Carson looks hopeful. "Do you _have_ a suit?"

"No. Unless you count that gray one I wore at Lisa's wedding."

"Oh, ugh. Don't bother."

"I might just stay at Thom's, then."

"Oh." Carson pokes the rack again, then reaches for his cigarettes. "Your groupie."

Carson almost sounds pleasant, but there's a clench in his throat at the end, turning the sentence ugly. It seems to startle both of them - Ted stops closing the case, his hands on the latches, and Carson freezes, still holding the cigarette. For a minute, the only sound is the crackle of tobacco burning.

"Am I to take it you have a problem?" Ted says softly. Carson's mouth tightens.

"No, why?" Carson stabs out his cigarette and lights another. "I think it's perfectly fine you've decided to have a little fling with some bored trust fund baby. I'm sure Justin Timberlake does it all the time."

Any other time he would chalk it up to Carson picking a fight because he's stressed out and tired, but it seems so meaningless to even have a fight right now, for Carson to bring out the stupid, petty bullshit - and _Justin Timberlake_? Where in the fuck does Carson get off? - because he's worried about his job. Ted says, his voice getting even quieter, "Just because you can't lord it over me anymore about how you're getting laid and I'm not -"

"Wow. Lording it over you? That's a new one."

He's had enough. He snaps the case closed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm sure you'll have oodles of fun," Carson says. "Try not to fight with him. Because he's so much like me, right?"

"Yeah," Ted says. "Except for the sleeping around part."

Carson looks like he's been slapped. "Fuck you."

"What the hell's your problem?" Ted says. "I said I wouldn't bother you. If you want to get into a pissing contest with me, Carson -"

"You are so goddamn dense it's unbelievable." Carson crushes out the second cigarette. "I'm going to take a shower."

"You already _took_ a fucking shower."

"I'm taking another one." Carson goes into the bathroom and slams the door.

"Do you ever get _tired_ of being an asshole?" Ted shouts at the closed door. No answer. "_Christ._"

Ted slams the door behind him as he leaves. _When did we turn into an old married couple?_

When Ted goes back to the apartment, sixteen hours later, Carson apologizes. Ted apologizes. Carson still doesn't look like he's sleeping right.

Two weeks later, Carson gets promoted.

*****

Ted doesn't know how he's let himself get talked into this, maybe because he's never been a muse before, but he's lying on Thom's couch while Thom takes Polaroids of him. Ted's shoes are dangling over the arm of the couch.

"I still think I should take my glasses off," Ted says.

"Leave your vanity out of this," Thom says and clicks the shutter. The Polaroid spits out of the camera, white and black. "_I_ think you'd make this a lot easier if you'd take your clothes off."

"This is presumably meant to be art, you pervert." Ted stretches; his neck is getting a crick in it. "You're going to make me look handsome, right?"

"Sure thing, honey," Thom says. He frowns and puts the Polaroid on the table, where a small pile's beginning to form. "You're going to come to the exhibition, right? It'll be fun. There'll be wine."

"Meet your friends?"

"Some of them. I don't know who else's going to wander in." Thom suddenly scoops a picture off the table. "God, that's bad. The light's terrible. I'm tossing it." He flicks the picture across the room, towards the trash can.

"Is it because I moved? I can stay still."

Thom shakes his head. "I like it when you move. You look more like yourself. Keep moving."

"Okay?" Ted says.

"Don't be so skittish. I'm a professional."

"Okay."

"But you're going to come, right?"

"Yeah," Ted says. Thom clicks the shutter again. "Is there - is there like a dress code?"

Thom laughs. "It's not a nightclub, it's a gallery."

"Well, you know what I mean."

"You just need to look presentable. It's not a big deal. Anyway, you're, like, Rocker Guy. You're not expected to wear a three-piece."

"Yeah," Ted says. "When is it?"

"Six weeks."

"It'll be great," Ted says. "Aren't you excited? First gallery showing?"

"I'll get excited when it's over," Thom says. "Right now it's just a pain. You're a good model, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Well. Yeah. Of course."

"Pumpkin, you're a terrible liar." Thom laughs. "Okay, that's enough. You've been very patient. Help me pick the best one."

Ted swings his legs over the side of the couch and stares at the Polaroids. His face is in various degrees of development, emerging from the black film. Thom puts down the camera and sits down, resting a hand on his thigh. He points at the pictures.

"This one's cute. When you were laughing."

"I am not cute," Ted says. He puts an arm around Thom's shoulders, leans into him with his hip. "Babies and puppies and kitty cats are cute. I am none of those things."

"Actually, when you're sleeping, you kind of..."

Ted slugs his shoulder. "Don't finish that sentence."

Thom whistles innocently. On the table, Ted watches his own face form, talking, laughing, eyes bright and wide behind the glasses.

*****

No matter how long Ted stares at his gray suit for, he can't make it look fashionable. The lapels are shiny with age, the sleeves too long, and there's a spaghetti sauce stain on the pants that's never gone away. Every other article of clothing he owns is either a T-shirt, jeans, or a sweatshirt. The gallery is in Soho. Ted is fucked.

He's still staring at the suit when Carson comes in. Carson says, "You finally going to burn that thing? You can use my lighter."

"Tell me when I turned into a poseur," Ted says.

"I wouldn't know." Carson drops his shoulder bag on the floor. "Is there a reason I should know?"

"Tell me," Ted says, "if you happened to be at a nice Soho gallery, and you saw me come in wearing this -"

"I'd think you'd got lost on your way to the Nielsen wedding reception."

"Oh. Great."

"Is this for..."

"Thom."

"Oh." Carson lights a cigarette.

"I'm still at a loss to explain how you can hate someone you've never even met."

"I'd rather not explain it," Carson says. "But you're still going. Even though your suit is horrendo."

"Yeah. You know, it's important."

"Does he want you to go?"

"For Christ's sake, Carson, _yes_."

"Just checking." Carson stubs out the cigarette and flicks his hair out of his face. "I think I'm going out again. You need the bathroom?"

"No. I need a suit."

"I'll see if we've got one stashed behind the toilet." Carson closes the bathroom door.

*****

Carson seems to be on strike from the apartment. Half of it might be that he's working longer hours, but his mail's been piling up and people keep leaving messages for him. Ted's thinking about calling Carson's mom to ask if she knows where he is.

When Carson finally shows up again, Ted is standing in the middle of the apartment scratching at the spaghetti stain on the ugly suit pants with his fingernail. He has three hours before he needs to go to Soho; hopefully he can minimize the damage before then. Carson says, "God, Ted, my eyes. Take that off."

"I'm trying to resign myself to it. Hi. You've got about six thousand messages on the machine."

"I brought you something," Carson says.

"What?"

"Catch. No, don't. Turn around." Carson holds out a shopping bag. "Here. Courtesy of our men's department. I think it's your size, anyway."

Ted stares at the bag. "Um, what?"

"It's a suit, jackass. For what's his name's thing tonight."

"I thought you didn't care."

Carson shrugs. He pulls the suit out of the bag; it's inky black, slim lines crinkling against its plastic covering. "I don't. I'm just getting you a little farewell gift."

"I haven't gone anywhere."

"Yeah, you have," Carson says. "Now put it on before I stop feeling generous. Do you know what I had to do to make Jackie in Menswear look the other way?"

"Carson, I can't -"

"Will you please just _do it_?" Carson's voice cracks on the last syllable.

He puts on the suit in the bathroom, because that's where the mirror is. The cotton feels soft against him, clinging to his body like a second skin. His arms and legs look long and sinuous in the mirror, eyes neon bright. Ted says, "Wow."

"Taiwanese sweatshop labor never looked so good," Carson says. "Your collar's crooked, though."

"Carson, this is too nice. I can't -"

"Do you like him?" Carson says, straightening his collar. "Is he good to you?"

Ted looks at the mirror. He thinks about Thom's smile, his laugh, the feel of his hands on Ted's shoulders. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"That's good," Carson says. He keeps his hand on the back of Ted's neck, staring at the mirror. "I'm sorry, peanut. About being a bitch. And everything."

"It's okay. You've been stressed out -"

"That's not it." Carson hasn't looked away from the mirror. "I just - I figured I had more time with you, you know?"

Ted feels like the biggest moron in the world.

"Oh," he says. "Oh, Carson."

"It's really okay," Carson says. "I mean, it's not like - never mind."

"Carson," Ted says, "Carson, everybody in New York is in love with you."

"Yeah," Carson says softly. "Everybody but one."

*****

Ted walks through the streets of Soho, half-looking for the gallery. His fingers and toes have gone numb.

Carson's farewell present has silky lining inside the suit coat, and Ted isn't sure whether he's been bribed or not. He thinks he could go back to the apartment and yell at Carson for not telling him sooner, say, "Goddamnit, you never gave me a chance," but the chance is gone now, and all he can do is hope Carson'll be okay.

Carson's a survivor, he'll be okay. He has to be.

The gallery is called Agatha Sterling, tucked in between an office building and a boutique. It looks mostly empty. Thom is pacing in the window, a chic, frazzled Italian expatriate in white linen. Ted waves. After a minute, Thom comes out, game face on, his 'I can handle whatever and it doesn't bother me' expression.

"Hey! You okay? You look kind of shaken up."

It's on the tip of his tongue for a moment, but it's really not the place. "I'm okay. How you holding up?"

"I'm - Oh my God. Are you wearing a suit?" Thom takes his arms and spins him. "Look at this. This is kind of scary."

"What do you think?"

"You look good. You look great. Christ."

"Yeah? I look like I fit in?"

"Nah."

"Gee, thanks."

Thom pulls him into his arms, and Ted should protest, because they're out in the open and he's not sure of the etiquette of this situation, but Thom's hard to resist when he wants something, and Ted likes the feeling of linen wrinkling against the suit. "Hey," Ted says softly, his hand on Thom's belly, his cheek against Thom's shoulder. "What's the big idea?"

"C'mon," Thom says. "It's still kind of early, let me show you the stuff before everyone gets here."

Ted has seen most of the paintings before, lying in Thom's apartment or in various stages of completion on his little easel. It's still a shock to see them lining the walls, as if they'd never been part of Thom at all, as if these bursts of shape and color just came into existence.

"They look okay, right?" Thom says. "Not too clashy?"

"It's great," Ted says. "They just pop out at you. I really like it."

Thom smiles, teeth catching his lower lip. Ted almost expects him to shuffle his feet and look at the floor. He says, "Oh! Ted, you haven't seen this one yet. Shut your eyes."

"Um..."

"Come on, it's a surprise."

Ted shuts his eyes. Thom spins him around, tugs him to what feels like the right side of the gallery. "Okay, almost there."

"This is kind of freaky, Thom."

"Quiet, you wuss. Okay, now."

Ted opens his eyes. For a minute all he can see is dark red and blue, more subdued than usual, jagged, textured lines running through the softness, and then he recognizes his face. It's so quick it's almost an optical illusion which then returns, and Ted feels like he's looking at himself through Thom's eyes, standing outside and looking at himself reaching out from the canvas, mouth crooked in a smile, eyes bright blue and tender behind the thick red lines that suggest the glasses. Ted swallows. "Oh my God."

"Do you like it?" Thom says. He has one hand on the back of Ted's neck. "I wanted it to be something you'd like..."

"Yeah," Ted says thickly. "Yeah, I like it."

"You okay?"

Ted nods. He couldn't say anything if he tried.

"There's wine," Thom says. "If you want it, anyway. That sound good?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna..."

"It's okay. I'm glad you like it."

Ted swigs down a glass and a half of white wine - sharp, faintly floral - and feels the tightness in his throat start to fade away. Thom's gone to greet a group coming in; it looks like a mixture of punky _enfants terribles_ types and glossy, well-manicured society types. Thom's crowd. Ted surveys them with interest, watching Thom move to greet everyone, welcoming them in. Ted wonders about what it would be like to move in two worlds.

Thom turns and extends a hand to him, beckoning him in, and Ted smiles and steps forward, ready to face the crowd.

"When your record comes out," Thom slurs, draped over Ted's shoulders on the way back to his apartment, "I'm gonna make everyone I know buy six copies and make their friends buy six copies and..."

"I'm sure we'll appreciate it once we actually get a record deal, Thom," Ted says.

"Mmm. Good."

They're almost to the apartment; Thom is flush with success and sweetly affectionate with wine, and it's really very nice but it's hard to walk when Thom is draped over him and purring in his ear.

"And you really liked it? You weren't bored?" Thom says for the fortieth time.

"I'm going to start saying I _hated_ it, just to see what you'll do," Ted says as they reach the apartment's door. "Got your keys, babe?"

"Uh-huh." Thom unlocks the door and pulls him inside, wrestling him down on the couch. He rests his chin on Ted's chest. "How y'all doin'?"

"You're gonna - hey, that tickles - you're gonna wind up knocking something over, Thom -"

"So?" Thom says. "Hey, how about you never leave?"

"Huh?"

"You know, dumbass. How about you stay here with me?"

"I was -"

"You know."

"You're drunk," Ted says. "And you're crazy. You're a crazy drunk person."

"Not that drunk." Thom nuzzles his neck. "C'mon, say you'll stay. I want to wake up beside you."

"Thom -"

"I want to wake up beside you for the rest of my life."

Ted lies very still, Thom wrapped in his arms, and listens to his heart beating.

*****

They take the A train back to the apartment after the show, when the sky is still dark. Ted's bass is resting against his ankles, bumping him reassuringly as the floor shakes. Thom is asleep against his shoulder, hair brushing the stubble on Ted's chin.

Ted watches the landscape flash by them, New York running by in fast motion, and he feels exhausted and cautiously happy. He's a little unnerved by that. Maybe he should do more stuff and not think about it too much.

The kid's plugging away, getting writeups in some of the papers, and Ted feels a certain sense of paternal pride. The kid keeps saying, "You'll help produce the album, won't you? Won't you?" and Ted keeps saying, "Jai, I've never produced anything in my life," but the protests keep getting weaker and weaker. He finally broke down and hired a manager for the band, and now that he doesn't have to run around and organize everything, he needs something to fill the space. The future seems full of possibilities.

He misses Carson. They've sort of settled into a routine where they run in each other as little as possible, Carson staying out late with people from work, Ted spending more and more time at Thom's, a precursor to actually moving out.

Someday, hopefully, he can be friends with Carson again. It just needs time.

Thom stirs against him, mumbling in his sleep. Ted rests his chin against Thom's forehead. Thom feels solid and warm and absolutely _there,_ and Ted hates the word love but he wants to think it anyway.

Their stop is coming up. Ted rubs Thom's shoulder. "Hey."

Thom opens his eyes and grins sleepily at him, reaching for his hand. "Hi."

The train comes to a stop; the doors start sliding open. It's almost morning. "C'mon," Ted says. "Let's go home."


End file.
